by Dick Francis
“So I see,” I said, smiling at them both.
“We’ve been talking about Mum and Dad,” said Sophie. “They want to come over and see us.”
I stopped smiling. I hadn’t spoken to Sophie’s parents in nearly ten years, and I had no wish to start doing so again now. They had been so hurtful towards me when Sophie had first fallen sick, accusing me of bringing on the mania by acts of cruelty towards the wife I adored. Her father even told me that Sophie’s illness was God’s punishment for me being a bookmaker.
I had walked out of their house on that day and had never been back. And, as far as I was aware, they had never set foot in my house, and I had no intention of inviting them to do so now.
“You can go and see them if you really want to,” I said. “But count me out.”
Sophie gave me a pained look.
I knew that Sophie had seen her parents at various times throughout the previous ten years, but we never spoke about it. I knew only because she was always agitated after the visits and I didn’t like it. Once or twice, those agitations had led to full-blown mania and subsequent depression. And on at least one occasion I was sure of, an argument between Sophie and her stubborn, ill-tempered and self-righteous father had resulted in her early return to the hospital.
“You know it’s not a good idea,” I said to her gently. “It always ends in a row of one sort or another, and rows are not good for you.”
“It’s different this time,” she said.
That is what she always said. Of course, I lived in the hope that it would be different this time, but, inside, I had to assume it wouldn’t be. I would be unable to endure the future disappointment if I placed too great an expectation on her present progress only for my optimism to be dashed.
I could hardly tell her not to see her own parents, and she would probably ignore me if I did. But I felt quite strongly about it. However, I didn’t want her going secretly behind my back, knowingly against my wishes. And, most of all, I didn’t want to argue with her.
What was I to say?
“What do you think Sophie should do,Alice?” I said, sidestepping the problem and placing it on another’s shoulders.
“I know Mum is very keen to see her,” she said.
“Then why didn’t she visit her in the hospital?” I asked. But I knew the answer.
“The hospital is so upsetting for them both,” said Alice.
It hadn’t been a barrel of laughs for the rest of us, but we had still gone. The truth was, I thought, that neither of Sophie’s parents could bear to admit that their precious elder daughter was mentally ill, and, provided they didn’t actually see her in an institution, they could go on fooling themselves that she was fine and well.
However, they didn’t fool me or, indeed, Alice, who had been painstaking and diligent in visiting her sister almost every other day. Even her two brothers had visited Sophie at least twice during her recent five-month stay. But of her parents, there had been not a sign.
“You must do what you think is best,” I said to Sophie. “But I would prefer it if they didn’t come here. So go and see them at their place, if you like. I won’t come, but, if you do go, I think it would be a good idea for you to go with Alice.”
“To dilute them, you mean,” Sophie said.
“Yes,” I said. “And to try and prevent a row.”
“Fine by me,” said Alice. “If Dad starts being a pain, I’ll kick him.”
She and Sophie laughed, their heads close together in sisterly conspiracy.
She’d better take steel-toe-capped boots, I thought.
18
The first race at Towcester’s late-June evening meetingstarted at six p.m. I have always liked to be set up at least an hour before the first in order to capture the early punters, and also to give time for us to sort out any problems we might have with our equipment, in particular flat batteries and poor wireless Internet signal. Consequently, I drove in through the racetrack-entrance archway a little before five and parked in the shade of a large oak tree in the center of the parking lot.
I have always enjoyed going to Towcester Races, and not only because most of their meetings have no admission charge for the public and hence none for the bookies. I also loved the parkland course set on the rolling countryside of the Easton Neston estate, and their recent investments in new facilities that made it an attractive venue for both bookies and punters alike.
As the racetrack was approximately midway between our homes in Kenilworth and High Wycombe, Luca and I had agreed to meet there, traveling in our separate cars, so I unloaded everything myself and pulled it on our trolley into the racetrack enclosure.
The betting ring at Towcester was unusual insofar that it was in the space between the grandstands rather than in front of them, as on many courses. This was due to the stands having been built very close to the track, which I suppose was sensible as it gave a much better view of the racing for the spectators.
Luca was already waiting for me as I pulled the trolley to our pitch.
“Where’s Betsy?” I asked.
“She’s not coming,” he said. “In fact, I don’t think she will be coming again, ever.”
“Oh?”
“She packed up yesterday and moved out of my flat,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not meaning it.
“I’m not,” he replied.“Not really.” He paused.“I suppose I’ll miss her.” He paused again. “I’ll definitely miss her in bed. Wow, she was so good.” He smiled at me.
“Too much information, Luca,” I said, laughing. “Far too much information.”
We set up the stuff in silence for a while.
“I suppose we’ll need a new junior assistant now,” Luca said.
“Yes,” I said. “Any ideas?”
“There’s a lad at the electronics club who might be good.”
“I don’t want any juvenile delinquents.”
“He’s a good lad at heart,” said Luca. “He just fell in with the wrong crowd.”
“Talking about the electronics club,” I said, “did you tell the police about that microcoder thing?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Sorry about that.”
“I should think so too. I nearly got arrested yesterday.”
“God! I’m sorry. I didn’t even know Jim was a copper until after he’d asked.”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“This chap, Jim, who also helps at the club, he called me up yesterday morning and asked about that black-box device thing you gave me to look at. Jim had helped me to investigate it. He was the bloke who fixed it up to the oscilloscope. So he just casually, like, asks me where I got it from, and I told him that you gave it to me. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong to say so, but Jim then says his boss will be most interested. So I ask him who his boss is, and he says some chief inspector or something.”
“You could have bloody warned me,” I said, fighting with the catch that held our board up.
“Sorry,” he said. “Jim called right in the middle of my own domestic crisis. Betsy had just accused me, point-blank, of sleeping with her sister, Millie.”
I stopped what I was doing and looked at him in surprise. Perhaps I might forgive him for not remembering to tell me about PC Jim.
“And have you?” I asked, intrigued.
“That’s none of your business,” he said, laughing. “But, no, not exactly.”
“And what the hell does that mean?” I said.
“I kissed her. Only once, mind. At her birthday party. You know, we went there from Ascot. But Betsy caught us.”
“Oh come on,” I said. “Everyone kisses the birthday girl at her own party.”
“Not with tongues,” he said. “And not out in the garden, behind a bush.”
“Ah,” I replied. That explained a lot. Betsy had been cool towards Luca ever since that party, and now I knew why.
“So what are you going to do?” I asked him.
“Nothing,�
�� he said. “Leave things to settle for a while, I think. Then I’ll see how the land lies.”
“She may not have you back,” I said.
“Back? Are you crazy? I just thought I’d better let things calm down before I asked Millie out.” He grinned at me, and I wasn’t sure whether he meant it or if he was just trying to shock his new business partner. Knowing Luca, it was probably both.
It was a lovely summer’s evening at the races with a large crowd, many of them eager to have a flutter on the horses, and most of them in summer-casual dress of shorts and T-shirts. It was a far cry from the morning-dress formality of Royal Ascot, and much more fun. The bars were soon doing brisk business, helped by the unusually warm weather, and before long there was a party atmosphere all around the betting ring.
Luca and I worked continuously, taking bets and paying out winners without a break, one of the disadvantages of not having a junior assistant. But busy as it was, it was still one of those times when being a bookmaker was a real joy.
No one really becomes a bookie unless they have a bit of the showman in them. I just loved standing on my platform shouting out the odds and bantering with the crowd.
“Come on, mate,” shouted one heavyweight punter at me, “call that fair to have Ellie’s Mobile at only three-to-one?” He looked up at the name at the top of our board. “How can we ‘Trust Teddy Talbot’ when you only offer it at that price?”
“If you’ll ride it, you can have it at tens,” I shouted back at him.
All his mates roared with laughter.
“He couldn’t ride a bike,” one of them shouted.
“Not without bending it,” shouted another.
“Give me twenty on the nose,” said the heavyweight, thrusting a note in my direction.
“Twenty pounds to win, number two, and make it at four-to-one,” I said to Luca over my shoulder. “Special favor.”
“Cheers,” said the man, surprised. “You’re a real gent.”
I didn’t know about that, but, if I couldn’t repay a bit of initiative and color, then I was in the wrong business.
Ellie’s Mobile, the favorite, romped home to win by four lengths at a starting price of three-to-one, cheered with great gusto by the ten-strong band of well-oiled mates, who had stayed near our pitch to watch the race.
“Well done,” I said to the big chap, who was beaming from ear to ear.
“My God!” he said loudly to whoever would listen.“I’ve actually got one over on a bookie.”
“That makes a change,” chipped in one of the others.
They all guffawed, and ordered more beer.
“Weighed in,” sounded the public-address system.
I paid the big man his eighty pounds in winnings plus his twenty-pound stake.
“Cheers,” he said again, stuffing the cash into a pocket. “I’ll trust Teddy Talbot any day of the week.”
Giving him a better price had cost me twenty pounds. But the man and his nine friends more than repaid that amount in losing stakes in the remaining races. And they did so with smiles on their faces.
In fact, the whole evening was fun, with plenty of punters and a good mix of favorites and outsiders winning the races. Our overround, the measure of our overall profit, hovered around nine percent throughout, and both Luca and I were tired but happy as we packed up the equipment onto our little trolley after the last race.
“Where are you parked?” I asked him.
“In the center,” he said. “And you?”
“Up there.” I pointed. “Where are we the rest of the week?”
“Worcester tomorrow afternoon, Thursday evening and Friday afternoon at Warwick, then Leicester on Saturday,” Luca said. He always remembered what we had arranged better than I. We sat down about once every six weeks or so to plan the time ahead, and it was getting near to when we would have to do it again.
“Better put everything in my car, then,” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I’ll give you a hand.”
We dragged the trolley up the hill to the parking lot near the main entrance where I had left my car. All around us were happy racegoers also making their way to their vehicles in the late-evening sunshine. One of the reasons why evening racing was so popular was that, even in southern England, the sun didn’t set until well after nine o’clock for two whole months during midsummer.
“How about your young delinquent friend?” I asked as we pulled on the trolley handle. “Can he come with you sometime this week so I can meet him?”
“I’ll find out,” Luca said. “And he’s not a delinquent. He’s a nice boy, or I wouldn’t even suggest it.”
“OK, OK,” I said, smiling. “Ask him if he’d like to come and watch us one day this week. What’s his name?”
“Douglas,” he said. “Douglas Masters.”
His name didn’t sound like that of a juvenile delinquent, but who was I to know? Kipper didn’t exactly sound like a killer’s name either, but it was.
“Calls himself Duggie. Can I tell him there’s a job?”
“Sure,” I said. “But tell him it’s like an interview. No promises.”
Two large men were leaning on the oak tree waiting for us beside my car. I knew them from a previous encounter. As before, they were dressed in short-sleeved white shirts and black trousers.
I stopped the trolley about ten yards from them.
“What the hell do you want?” I shouted across.
Luca looked at me in stunned amazement.
“Eh?” he said. He obviously hadn’t seen them, or, if he had, he hadn’t realized they were waiting for us.
“Luca,” I said. “These are the two gentlemen who delivered a message to me in the Kempton parking lot.”
“Oh,” he said. Oh, indeed.
I looked down at the men’s feet. Large, steel-toe-capped work boots, same as before.
“We have another message,” one of them said. He was the taller of the two, the same one who had spoken to me at Kempton. Not that the other one was short. They both were well over six feet. The sidekick made up for his slight lack of height by being a good few inches broader than his more wordy companion. And he just stood silently to one side, bunching his fists.
Surely I was not to be beaten up again, I thought. Not here at this wonderful parkland racetrack, not with all these people about.
“What message?” I said. There was still ten yards between us, and I reckoned that if they made a move towards me I would turn and run. A ten-yard start should be enough for me to reach the relative safety of a busy after-racing bar in the grandstand.
“Luca,” I said quietly, “if they move, run for it. Run like the wind.”
The look on his face was priceless. I’m not sure he realized until that point that he was in any danger.
“My boss says he wants to talk to you,” the man said.
“You can tell your boss to bugger off,” I said.
“He wants to do some business,” the man went on.
“Still tell him to bugger off,” I said. “I don’t do business the same way he does.”
“He wants to buy you out,” he said, ignoring me.
I stood there looking at the man in complete surprise.
“What?” I said, not quite believing what I’d heard.
“He wants to buy your business,” the man said.
“He couldn’t afford it,” I said.
“I don’t think you understand,” said the man. “My boss wants your business, and he’s prepared to pay for it.”
“No,” I almost shouted. “I don’t think you understand. My business is not for sale, and even if it was I wouldn’t sell it to your boss, whoever he might be, for all the tea in China. So go and tell your boss to get stuffed.”
The man flexed his muscles and began to get red in the face.
“My boss says that you can either sell it to him the easy way or lose it to him the hard way.”
“And who exactly is your boss?” I shouted at him.
“Stay there,” I shouted at him. He stopped. “Who is your boss?” I asked again. Again, he ignored me. And he advanced another stride. Eight yards.
I was at the point of running when another voice came from behind me.
“Hello, Teddy Talbot. You all right?” I turned and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The big man from the betting ring was staggering up the parking lot towards me, together with his band of brothers. “You in need of some help?” he said, only slightly slurring his words.
I turned back to the two bullyboys.
“That would be great,” I said. “I think these two men are just leaving.”
I stared straight at them, and, finally, they decided to give up and go. Luca and I stood surrounded by the cavalry, and we watched as the two men walked across to a black BMW 4× 4 and drove away through the archway and out onto the London Road. I made a mental note of the number plate.
“Were those boys troubling you?” asked my mate, the large guy.
“Some people will do anything to get their losses back from a bookie,” I said somewhat flippantly. “But, thanks to your lot, they didn’t manage it today.”
“You mean those two were trying to rob you,” said another of the group.
“They certainly were,” I said, but not quite in the way I’d made out.
“You should have said so. I’m a policeman.”
He produced his warrant card from his pocket, and I read it: PC Nicholas Boucher, Northamptonshire Constabulary. Off duty, I presumed, in multicolored tropical shirt, baggy shorts and flip-flops.
“I got their car registration,” I said.
“Good,” said PC Boucher. “Now, what exactly did they say to you? Did they demand their money back?”
“Well, no,” I said. “They hadn’t quite, and you guys turning up must have frightened them away before they had a chance to. And I’m only assuming that’s what they wanted. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”
“Oh,” he said, rather disappointed. His case was evaporating before his eyes.“Not much I can do if they hadn’t actually demanded any money from you. But did they threaten you?”